


How the Times Have Changed

by BirdBirdBirdBird



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fucked Up, Implied Polyamorous Losers Club (IT), Intrusive Thoughts, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier-centric, Seriously folks, Suicide Attempt, its some sad shit, maybe? - Freeform, post It Chapter Two, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdBirdBirdBird/pseuds/BirdBirdBirdBird
Summary: Richie finds himself standing on the railing of a fancy fucking hotel balcony. His Losers pull him back from the edge.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, The Losers Club & Richie Tozier, The Losers Club/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 223





	How the Times Have Changed

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!!! This fic contains suicidal thoughts, actions, and it gets seriously close to suicide. it includes intrusive thoughts as well and uh... a little bit ooc characters, probably. wouldnt count that as a trigger myself but... I guess people are really marking it in their fics?? so fuck it stay safe
> 
> I'm kinda sad so I wrote a little vent fic and how much I fucking hate my intrusive thoughts and pulled this out of my ass. It's currently 11:47, so if its shit, I'll rewrite it later. Please, heed the warnings and read carefully!

It's a nice hotel, that Richie can't complain about. Bill booked it with all that fancy book/director money. Richie tried to chip in (come on, he had like two Netflix specials, he had some good money!) but Bill had insisted. There was 100 dollar bottles of chardonnay in the cabinets, fully stocked refrigerators, three separate rooms for sleeping (although they all knew they'd only sleep in one)--

And here was Richie, standing on the railing of the fancy fucking hotel balcony. He still had his shoes on, knew that somewhere he saw people would leave their shows next to where they jumped in... some culture, but he kept them on. Not sure quite why. 

The railing was pretty wide, safe enough that he could stand flat on it with good enough balance that he wasnt teetering. The ground was at least a thousand feet below him. The sun was setting, a storm rolling in that made the wind begin to whip and the air taste like tv static. 

Richie wasnt sure what he was doing. He wasnt looking up or down or straight in front of him, or anywhere for that matter. He just... looked. He couldnt remember where the Losers were, hadn't seemed like important informatio. He thought he'd have enough time to get it over with, whatever "it" was --

Until he heard the door click. 

Richie didnt move, didnt tense, didnt jump. He didnt want to jump, so why was he up there? He heard somebody start to gasp, maybe Stan or Ben or whoever, but nobody spoke. Not Bill, not Mike, not Eddie, not Ben, not Stan, not Beverly. Maybe they didn't care? 

The wind gave a sudden gust that almost pushed Richie's glasses off his face, almost deafening the comedian. Suddenly, he felt a hand bunch up the back of Richie's shirt in a fist. 

"Richie," the hand-owner said. Was it Bill? "What are you doing, pal?" He spoke like he was talking to a child drawing a dubious family portrait, or one that just got caught feeding carrots to the dog.

"...I dunno." Richie said, hands going slack by his sides. "Think I was gonna jump." 

"How come?" Hand-owner-- yeah, definitely Bill --asked. The grip didnt pull or push. "Why the hell are you thinking of that?"

Richie looked down for the first time, discomfort clawing up the back of his neck and hitting his brain. "Everything is bad." He croaked. Thousand foot drop. "My brain is tired."

Bill hummed. "Mine too, Richie. But everything isn't bad, Rich, what about your career? Isn't it wonderful to see how far you've come?" 

Richie laughed, a watery, sad sounding thing. "I'm a fucking clown." The word sent shudders up his spine. "And I get paid for it. I'm not somebody to look up to." 

There was the sound of soft steps. "Richie," a new voice spoke. Kind, gentle, sweet, a little raspy. "I look up to you." Ben had a smile in his voice, even if Richie couldn't see his face. 

Richie opted not to say anything. Instead, he focused on the growing storm. 

Ben continued. "I get that we aren't the same people by a long shot, but hell, Trashmouth, you got me through a lot of things when we were kids." He chuckled. 

Richie smiled warily into the sky. It was a little darker now, not too bad, though. It was summer time... so why was he so cold? "Guess I did, huh Benny?" 

There was the sound of shuffling and feet coming closer, sounded like the rest of the Losers. That tiny voice that shouted "jump!" suddenly got a little louder. Richie shifted, head spinning. He heard people jolt as if to keep Richie from falling, but Richie stayed put.

"I don't like it here," Richie worked out, voice shaking. "I don't like it here anymore." He sobbed quietly. The railing shuddered with empathy.

The hand holding his shirt twisted tighter. He heard another voice. "You don't like it here... with us?" 

Eddie.

Richie sobbed again, still quiet. "Anywhere with you guys is... is astonishing," he took a few, chest tightening breaths. "But where am I going? Why am I still on this stupid fucking planet? I fought a god damn clown alien TWICE and all I have to show for it is a fucking comedy show." He panted, head spinning a little faster. "Where am I going?"

"If you come down, I'll show you." A voice offered, sweet angel Mike. 

Richie didn't move. The hand didn't move. The Losers didn't move. "...and if I don't?" 

He was startled as a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped tightly around his waist and pulled him backwards. "That isnt going to happen." Beverly promised, steadying Richie as his feet hit the ground, with the help of Bill. 

Richie looked up from where he stood, catching the gazes of the Losers Club, for a split second seeing the little kids they used to be. He stepped towards somebody, Stan, he thinks, before his knees buckle and he collapses on the balcony floor. Quiet, racking sobs shake Richie as pairs of arms wrap around him and stroke him in comfort. He could vaguely tell Stan was the one holding his front, Ben at the back, and the others all around.

"I've got you, Trashmouth," Stan whispered fiercely in his ear, gripping Richie's back for emphasis. "I'm not letting go, Richie." 

And Richie cried onto the chest of Stan, his Jewish best friend who used to study birds for fun, now marred with teeth mark scars and stubble, with Buh-Buh-Bill holding him from behind with Haystack the new kid with the New Kids on the Block, and Mikey, the boy who lost it all to the fire and found it in the sewers on either side of him. That skinny little hypochondriac in the short shorts with a fanny pack was whispering sweet nothings to him on the balcony of a hotel they couldnt have ever dreamed of affording and that ember haired girl was pulling Richie's hands out of his hair. Richie was happy, even after just trying to jump to his absolutely unavoidable death. 

He remembers the clubhouse Ben built, remembers the night in the sewers that they found the kids, remembers putting an axe in Henry Bowers' skull and remembers kissing Eddie when he thought it was all over. He remembers the Losers refusing to leave him alone that first night after the Death of It, all seven of them huddled into a queen sized mattress that laid directly on the hardwood floor so that the combined one thousand pounds wouldnt snap the bed frame. He remembers.

How the times have changed, and Richie had too, for better or for worse, that's up to you. But here, curled into the fetal position on a hotel balcony made for Beyonce and housing seven stupid gay kids from Derry in the body of their 40s who never quite grew up, Richie found his solace. How long that would last, he didn't know. For now, he lived with it, could feel his breathing sync with Stan. Pictured himself as Bill, clutching the little rain coat, Richie on one arm, Eddie on the other, enveloped in love and understanding.

How the times have changed, only they really hadn't.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 1/12: me: ... *googles how tall buildings are*  
> google: 492 feet  
> me: ......... 1,000 feet you say??  
> Yeah welcome to dumbass culture I said 1000 feet like three times so let's just ignore that bc im not gonna go back and fix it lmao
> 
> I wont mark it as a 1/? but I might write a few follow up chapters if i start feeling better. 
> 
> no beta we die like men
> 
> please kudo and comment, I thrive on validation


End file.
